


Nag, Nag, Nag

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: Secret Six
Genre: Blow Jobs, Challenges, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas and Floyd get into an argument about Floyd's...questionable driving skills. The argument is settled via an equally questionable test of his ability to <em>concentrate</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nag, Nag, Nag

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Не пили](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023533) by [fierce_cripple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierce_cripple/pseuds/fierce_cripple), [WTFDeadRobin2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTFDeadRobin2017/pseuds/WTFDeadRobin2017)



> This is all basically DuctTapeFae's fault.

“I—will you use your fucking turn signal?”

“What for? Road was clear.”

“If by clear you mean we almost got hit by a truck, then yes, the road was clear.” Thomas grimaces. “You are by far the _worst_ driver I've ever seen.”

“Better'n you.” Floyd's not even looking at him. _Or_ at the road. He's fumbling for a cigarette. “Least I drive like a grown-ass man and not like a little granny.”

“Ok, _one,_ old women are _terrifying_ drivers. And _two,_ I don't like car crashes, they're _really_ unpleasant.”

“Or you're a baby.”

“In which case you're a pedophile and I still haven't crashed the will you watch _out!_ ” as another car skids by, just barely avoiding hitting them. “We're carrying delicate cargo! Scandal and Bane'll be _pissed_ if we get to the drop-off and don't have an intact product to hand over.”

“It'll be _fine,_ Tomcat, don't getcher panties in a twist.” Floyd lights his cigarette. “I always got one eye on the road, no matter what. Sharpshooter thing.”

“And would you _slow down?_ I don't feel like getting rid of any more dead cops today.”

“Nag, nag, nag.”

“Did you actually just—”

“Look, Tomcat, I'll keep us on the road. Don't worry your shaggy head about it.”

Thomas settles back in his seat, arms folded across his chest, looking offended. “So now you're talking about my hair. Very mature. You're going to get us killed.”

“Am not.” Floyd snorts, flicking ash out the window—a pedestrian shouts, startled. “Nothin' short'a Armageddon's running me off the road. I am un-fucking-flappable. Finest driver north of the Mason-Wayne Line.”

“Really.” Thomas rolls his eyes. “Prove it.”

“How'm I supposed to do that? I ain't magic, I can't just fucking summon up a helicopter fulla commandos with grenade launchers or some shit. ...granted, I kinda _wish_ I could do that, it sounds like it'd be pretty convenient. Cannon fodder on command.”

This seems to shut Thomas up for a minute. He just gazes out at the scenery rushing by, an irritated look on his face. But then, slowly, the irritated look turns contemplative, and then faintly pleased. He unbuckles his seatbelt. “I think I know a decent alternative to commandos with grenade launchers.”

Floyd's gaze flicks to him briefly. “You, uh, you planning something?”

“Honestly it's just a good thing this car is ancient. Hard to find a bench seat in the front nowadays.”

“Not seeing what you're getting—”

_Zip._

Floyd's eyes go wide. He _doesn't_ look down; his eyes stay _firmly_ on the road. “I. Uh. Think I see what you're gettin' at here.”

Thomas looks up at him. “If you crash the car, I stop.”

“Oh now you're just playing dirty, Tomcaaa _jesus fucking CHRIST._ ”

The car swerves a little bit, but it doesn't go off the road.

Floyd's hands tighten on the steering wheel as Thomas goes _down._

He can feel his face flushing and risks a glance in the rearview. Yep. _Bright_ fucking red. “This's. This's a little crazier than usual for you.”

“Mmmm?”

“Ri~ _ight!_ Eyes on the road. _Driving_ now. _Not_ crashing the ca~ _aaaar shit_ I'm—I am—Blake I am gonna _kill_ you.”

“Mm-mm. Mm mm mmt.”

He hits the accelerator spasmodically, jerking the wheel to avoid running into a telephone pole. “Don't _do_ that!”

“Mm mm mm?”

“Ff—make noises while you're—nope, nope, _not_ crashing the damn car.”

Thomas makes another self-satisfied humming noise, and Floyd yelps and swerves perilously around a businessman in a smart car.

As the, ah... _pace_ speeds up, the car's speed gets more and more erratic, until they're lurching down the highway in the most horrifying fashion possible, Floyd's talking having devolved into _absolutely_ obscene moans.

Until finally—“Fuck, _Thomas,_ ” and as he comes his eyes shut for a moment but he _does not crash the car._

He pulls over—luckily there's nobody on this stretch of road but them—and slumps, pressing his head against the steering wheel, huffing. “I...am gonna... _murder_ you...in your _sleep_...if you _ever_ surprise me like that again.”

Thomas straightens up, wiping his mouth and shrugging a crackle out of his back. “You win.”

“...what?”

“I admit it. I did my best, but you still didn't crash the car.”

“You're fuckin' _crazy._ ”

“And?”

“Gonna get you _back_ for this.”

“I should fucking hope, I'm going to have a crick in my neck for the rest of the day.”

A moment, and then Floyd smirks. “Sure was something, though.”

Thomas twists to glance back over his shoulder. “We should probably go check on the cargo. Make sure nothing important's broken.”

They get out of the car, head round to the back, and Floyd pops the trunk so they can check on their cargo.

Electrocutioner stares up at them, wide-eyed. “You know I could _hear_ you the whole fuckin' time?”

Thomas nods slowly. “Good to know. I didn't think the sound quality would be that good in here. We can probably use that for something, couldn't we, Floyd?”

“Could probably be useful, yeah.”

Their cargo snorts. “Fags.”

Thomas shrugs. “I _do_ suck dick like a champion, that's true.”

“I—”

And the claws come out. “But if I _ever_ hear you say that word again—or for that matter if you repeat what I just told you—I'll open your throat up and paint the ground with your blood.”

As they head back up to the front of the car, Floyd glances over the roof at Thomas and says, “Anyone ever told you you're my kinda guy?”

“You know, I think I could have guessed.”


End file.
